


all I know is that you're sure looking good in my shirt

by janie_tangerine



Category: Bastille Day (2016)
Genre: Breakfast, I Blame Tumblr, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Sharing Clothes, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, this movie ruined me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which Briar walks in on Michael cooking breakfast in Briar's kitchen, wearing his shirt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was always written on tumblr for an anon who wanted _Michael wearing Briar's shirt while cooking breakfast the morning after and it gives Briar strange fuzzy feelings ;)_. It doesn't give him just FUZZY feelings in here but let's be honest, everyone has a limit. (The author included.) Nothing belongs to me and the title is from Keith Urban because I'm trash and this kind of fluff deserves titles from equally fluffy sources.

The moment Briar wakes up, he registers three things, in the following order: it’s ten AM (which is _not_ a normal occurrence – he never wakes up later than eight-thirty, what the hell?), there’s a dip in the other side of the bed but the mattress is otherwise empty, and someone’s cooking in the kitchen. He can smell coffee, and possibly – possibly pancake batter, but he couldn’t be sure of that. He groans as he sits up, the previous night’s events coming to mind at once – it’s not that he _forgot_ that instead of recommending Mason for car washing duty he actually _brought him home_ , fuck’s sake. Never mind that the kid’s shirt is definitely lying on the ground in front of the bedroom’s door – is he cooking shirtless?

_Well, you wouldn’t mind taking a look at that_ , his traitorous brain supplies, but – listen, as much as he doesn’t like to face it, he’s also human and he has _eyes_ , and sure as hell Mason’s not hard to look at among other things.

He also tries to not think about how he had looked last night, with his wrists pinned to the wall and Briar’s hands keeping them _there_ , otherwise he’s going to need ten cold showers and that’s not really an option right now. He groans, figuring that at least he doesn’t have to put coffee on, and grabs a pair of sweatpants from the closet – and wait a moment, wasn’t his shirt on the ground along with Mason’s? He shrugs – it’s probably under the bed – and grabs the first t-shirt he finds in the drawer. It’s a nondescript black one, it’ll do.

He figures trying to put on shoes isn’t worth it and he heads out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen.

_Now_ he can hear Mason humming _something_ as he – pours coffee or whatever. He can’t place the song but it’s _definitely_ some pop crap that Briar’s blissfully too old for.

He sighs, and he’s about to complain about it as he walks into the kitchen.

Except that then he actually takes the scene in. First thing, the table is covered in food he didn’t even know he had in the fridge – he’s sure that he had no fruit whatsoever, and instead there’s a few plates with peaches, some plums, a few grapes and cherries spread over it. Also, there are _croissants_ on another couple, and they smell fresh – sure as fuck Briar didn’t have that in the cupboard. There’s also a growing stack of pancakes on the counter and a few on the table, and – hell. Is there _custard_ in a bowl next to the first one?

There’s indeed coffee brewing, at least he got that right.

But that’s just peripheral.

What’s not peripheral is Mason standing in front of the stove, wearing his jeans, no shoes and _Briar’s shirt_ , the one he couldn’t find before, which is at least two sizes too large for him and therefore shows off most of his chest and a good portion of his left shoulder, and incidentally also his neck, on which one can see two glaring, red bite marks. Never mind that the kid’s skin is so fucking pale that you can see red imprints of where Briar grabbed at his shoulder last night.

Ah, and he’s indeed cooking pancakes and singing, not too loudly, but now that he’s in the same room Briar can be reasonably sure it’s indeed late nineties pop crap.

Thing is: if the sight was turning him on, it’d be at least reasonable.

But – no, okay, that’s also a thing that might be happening, but it’s not what Briar’s _mainly_ feeling right now.

And that’s what’s worrying. Because he’s thinking that he wouldn’t mind a second or third or fourth occurrence of the present circumstance, and he doesn’t think he’s seen Mason looking _this_ at ease at any point in their admittedly short time together, and he doesn’t think that _he_ ever caused this kind of effect on anyone, and Briar’s had enough casual lays, thank you very much.

“What the hell?” He blurts out, not finding a better way to address the situation.

Mason turns to look at him, completely unfazed and still fucking  _glowing_. It has to be the light. There’s absolutely no other explanation.

“Man, I kinda pegged you for a morning person, but that’s good – gave me time to put things together, after all.”

“Wait, what, how long have you been in my kitchen?”

“Technically, some forty minutes – I mean, I did have to put the batter together and all – but your fridge was woefully empty. Which is why I went downstairs and bought some stuff – also that bakery around the corner is _great_ , figured you might want to try the local delicacies.”

“And with which money you bought all of that?”

Mason sends him a look which screams _where do you think it might have come from_.

Briar groans.

“Let me guess, if I search my wallet it won’t have any cash in it, will it?”

“Now you’re being unfair.” Is the kid _pouting_? Christ. “You’re thirty euros short, fine, but all of that went on food anyway. What do you live on, fucking air? Everything else is still in there.”

“And you went downstairs dressed like _that_?”

“Why not? There was no one around at that time anyway.”

“And now you’re _making breakfast_?”

“Shit, are you always like that? I mean, one would ask you if no one else ever does that kinda thing the morning after, but if you start going all _secret agent_ on them I can believe they’d flee.” Then he smirks and flips the pancake he had been cooking. “However,” he keeps on, “it’s your lucky day because I’m not that easily swayed.”

“ _What_?”

“So, are you getting breakfast or not? If you want fruit on those pancakes it’s in front of you.”

Briar should _not_ just go with it, but he’s too out of his depth to even come back with a rebuttal, so he sits down and grabs a croissant.

Fine.

It’s good. He can see Mason smirking as he watches him eat it, so he says nothing and waits until Mason’s put the second stack of pancakes on the table.

“Well, _get some_ , I wasn’t cooking just for the fucking sake of it,” Mason says, and then he proceeds to grab a plum, cutting it in small pieces, placing it on the pancake in front of him and adding custard to the entire thing, and – he’s doing it with the same surgical precision he steals things and Briar would like to ask him _what the fuck he thinks it’s going on_ , but then Mason looks at him, _smiles_ instead of just smirking and pushes the plate in front of him. “Right. This time I’m forgiving you your uncivilized ways, you can have this one. But next time I’m not buying groceries for you.”

It should probably be worrying that the first thing Briar thinks is _has he already decided that there’ll be a next time_ , instead of _I should tell him that’s not going to be a thing_.

Then he wordlessly grabs the plate and starts cutting the pancake, which is _good_ , damn it, this while Mason mindlessly munches on a croissant as he pours himself coffee. And he hasn’t even tried to cover up the bite marks or the red shapes that Briar’s fingertips left on his shoulder not even ten hours ago, and he looks so at ease as he leans back on the chair and takes small bites from the thing as sunlight pours in from the window, Briar thinks that his brain must have short-circuited or something. It’s probably an explanation. Because right now he can only think that _he likes what he sees a whole damned lot_.

Then Mason makes himself another plums and custard pancake, but before eating it he reaches for a peach and bites down into it. His lips suddenly turn redder and a bit of juice trickles on his chin and –

Briar looks down at his pancake and keeps on eating it. God, Mason needs to _stop_ being such a tease, because –

“I never said I wasn’t up for round two after eating,” Mason says very, very calmly before grabbing a forkful of plum pancake and putting it in his mouth slowly _and_ deliberately, like someone who perfectly knows the effect it might have on others.

“Just round two?” Briar asks cautiously. “Because I think I might go as far as round three here.”

“Why,” Mason says, his voice going slightly lower, “if buying you groceries is what I have to pay for _three_ rounds, I guess I can deal with being your maid, if that CIA job doesn’t work out.”

Then he winks before biting down on that peach again.

Briar is going to think about _why_ instead of finishing breakfast he stands up, grabs Mason’s arm and pushes him up against the fridge before kissing him right _there_ , but he’s going to do it later.

_Much later_.

 

End.


End file.
